Chapter 7 - The Collapse of the Con ArtistWhile Mariana was breaking down in the interrogation precinct, Sergio Morales was experiencing a much more physical awakening three cells down.
Two massive prison guards unlocked the heavy iron bars of holding cell number 4. They didn't say a word. They simply grabbed Sergio by the shoulders of his stained designer shirt, yanked him off the concrete bench, and dragged him screaming down the damp, echoing corridor.
—Hey! Where are you taking me?! You can't do this! I know people! I have rights! —Sergio thrashed wildly, his expensive leather loafers scuffing against the filthy floor.
—Shut your trap, con artist —one guard grunted, shoving him hard through a heavy swing door into a sterile, blindingly bright processing room.
Standing by a stainless-steel table was not a police officer, but a sharply dressed man with an iPad in his hand: Mateo Silva’s chief legal enforcer, a man known throughout Jalisco simply as El Licenciado Navarro.
Navarro looked up from his tablet, sizing Sergio up with a look of pure, unadulterated amusement.
—Ah, Sergio Morales. The financial wizard of Guadalajara. The man who turns other people’s life savings into unpaid credit card bills and pawnshop receipts.
Sergio panted heavily, trying to puff out his chest despite his trembling knees.
—Listen to me... if you think you can scare me, you're wrong. My wife is Elena Cárdenas’s daughter! The old lady loves her! She’ll bail us out by tomorrow! She always bails us out!
Navarro let out a sharp, barking laugh that echoed off the white tile walls.
—Bail you out? Sergio, let me enlighten you on a very basic mathematical equation. Do you know how much money you currently owe to private lenders, unofficial creditors, and financial institutions across this city?
Sergio blinked, his throat going dry.
—I... what? What does that have to do with anything?
Navarro tapped his iPad screen, turning it around to show a staggering list of red figures.
—Four million, eight hundred thousand pesos. In short-term loans, high-interest mafia debts, and defaulted promissory notes. And guess what? Mateo Silva just bought every single one of those debt portfolios this morning.
Sergio’s knees buckled. He caught himself against the stainless-steel table, his face turning the color of ash.
—You... you bought my debts? Why would you do that?!
—Because, Morales —Navarro leaned in close, his voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper—, when you scam an ordinary person, it’s a crime. But when you defraud a federally protected estate managed by Mateo Silva, it’s an execution. You don't have a bail option. You don't have a lawyer. You have twenty-four hours to sign over every asset you ever dreamed of stealing, or you spend the rest of your natural life in a maximum-security penitentiary where inmates take a special liking to men who steal from old widows.
Sergio looked at the contract on the table. His hands shook so violently he could barely hold the pen.
May you like
He looked at the security camera mounted in the corner of the room, blinking its small red light.
And for the first time in his miserable, parasitic life, Sergio realized that the trap wasn't just shut—it was welded shut forever.
